A/N: Brynaea came up with the idea for this chapter—soon she's gonna qualify as collaborator! mjf

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Rescue

Cuddy and Wilson listen to House gloat for a little while longer, but both can tell that he's tiring and doesn't want to admit it. So Cuddy looks at her watch and says, "This story gets more exciting with each retelling, but I really do have to get going."

"Yeah, and it's time for meds and such anyway," Wilson reminds House. "I'm gonna draw the first labs for monitoring the TPN before Cuddy leaves; she's agreed to drop it off, save the courier a trip."

Wilson draws the blood from the PICC line, sees Cuddy out, then returns to the bedroom. He wants to get the meds administered and the assessment completed; he's hoping that House will fall asleep and get some solid rest.

"What's with that left thigh? Still hurting?" he asks as he sees House rubbing at it almost absentmindedly.

"You weren't exactly gentle with that epi injection," House reminds him. "The way you jammed that needle in, 'course it's gonna hurt for a while."

This explanation sounds logical to Wilson. He begins his assessment, and is pleased when both the upper airway sounds and the lungs are clear. He considers discontinuing the oxygen, but since House isn't complaining about it, Wilson decides it certainly won't hurt for him to wear it overnight. As a matter of fact, he notes, House has grown awfully quiet, even subdued, since Cuddy left; he looks almost distracted. "Everything okay?" Wilson asks, thinking it's probably just fatigue. When House simply nods, Wilson says, "I'm gonna go refrigerate the rest of the TPN; I'll be back in a few minutes." House doesn't acknowledge the comment, just closes his eyes.

Wilson's in the kitchen when he hears House call to him, and there's a note in House's voice that Wilson's never heard before—it's abject terror. Wilson drops the bowl he's holding and runs.

House is sitting bolt upright in the bed. He's sweating, and clearly struggling for breath. The cardiac monitor shows a heart rate of 118, and climbing. "It's happening again," House gasps.

Wilson is to the bedside in three steps. House's color is pale, but there's no sign of cyanosis. Wilson grabs his hands, turns them palms up—no further angioedema. House's respiratory rate is increasing alarmingly, but his lungs and upper airways are still clear, and his O2 sat is 98 percent. Wilson knows immediately what's going on; he just doesn't know how he's going to tell House. But he needs to tell him quickly; the man thinks he's dying. So Wilson starts speaking, hoping that the right words will just come out.

"House, it's okay; you're just going to have to ride this out. I'm--"

"It's not okay; I can't breathe! Heart's racing, I… I…." House abruptly stops talking; he's overwhelmingly nauseated, his chest is tight, and he's certain that he's dying. Why can't Wilson see that something's wrong? Does he think I'm making this up? Feel like I'm losing my mind! Gotta get outta here. He starts to push the blankets back; maybe if he could just move, he'd be okay. He's smothering, he's trapped, he's dying. And his doctor, his best friend, is calmly watching it happen.

Wilson sits on the edge of the bed, right next to House, pinning the blankets in place. He grasps House's upper arms firmly. "Listen to me. Listen. It's just a reaction. I know what you're feeling. You're not gonna die, it's all--"

"I know what's happening to my own body!" House shouts. "Let me go!" He struggles against the hold Wilson has on his arms and glares at Wilson when he's unable to break free.

"You must listen to me." Wilson keeps his voice calm. "You're having a delayed reaction to the anaphylaxis; that's all. I know it's frightening. But it will only last a few minutes. I'm right here; we'll ride it out together." If I tell him it's a panic attack, he's gonna feel like he has to deny it, that'll redouble the problem. He's agitated enough already….

House continues to glare angrily at Wilson, but he quits struggling.

"I'm gonna let go of your arms now; I want to raise the O2 a little bit. Your sats are fine, but it might make you more comfortable. You need to work on slowing your breathing. Can you do that?"

Maybe he's right, House thinks. Couldn't talk if I were smothering. Monitor's showing sinus tach; not a cardiac problem. Maybe he's right. Gotta trust him. Gotta. House nods, meets Wilson's eyes, and Wilson slowly releases his arms, then leans over and adjusts the oxygen flow.

"Now focus on what I'm saying." Wilson speaks slowly, soothingly, looking directly into House's eyes. "The anaphylactic reaction was a stressful experience. It was terrifying. You could have died. But your brain was so busy diagnosing what was going on, figuring out the puzzle, that you didn't have time to process what was happening. Now that it's all over, and you had a few minutes to yourself, it gave you time to think about it, to react to what happened. You with me so far?" Wilson sees that House's hands are shaking, and he's still diaphoretic. His heart rate's slowed, but it's still above 100. When House doesn't answer him, Wilson places both his hands gently over House's wrists, careful not to make House feel trapped or restrained, and repeats the question. "With me on this?"

Finally, House nods slowly, and makes an effort to take a deep, controlled breath. He isn't trying to move his wrists from beneath Wilson's hands, so Wilson allows his fingers to curl lightly around the wrists, telegraphing security; House allows it.

Wilson continues to speak. "When Cuddy was here, you were able to distract yourself from dealing with what had happened by giving her all the gory details—and even embellishing a bit!" It makes Wilson unreasonably happy when he sees House actually smile at his last statement. Okay, we're in the home stretch, gonna make it through! "But then she left, and I went to the kitchen, and your brain went into overdrive, and your body reacted. It was just your brain's way of telling your body that it had had enough."

Wilson knows that House is well aware of all these things, but Wilson also knows that House needs to hear them, in words, from someone who cares. And that's confirmed when he feels House's right wrist turn beneath his left hand, and then House's fingers come around Wilson's wrist. Wilson doesn't pause, just keeps on talking as an idle fact drifts through the periphery of his thoughts… it's a rescue hold…. "And I don't blame your brain; you've been through hell these last few days. Things are just starting to straighten out, and this was a little setback, and it's over now. Normal reaction to everything that's happened, but it's over. And you're okay. You made it. You fought it, and won. You did good, House. From here on in, it'll be easier."

House hasn't removed his eyes from Wilson's face, and when Wilson pauses a moment to glance at the monitors, he sees that the expression on House's face is one he hasn't seen before; it's utter trust. Not distrust, not conditional trust—just, simply, trust.

Wilson has to swallow, hard, and blink a couple of times. Then he can speak. "It's over, pal. You did it. We did it."

House's gaze still hasn't wavered; he nods solemnly, once, at Wilson. Finally, he looks away. "Thanks."